


A Lover With A Red Hot Thong

by Luluthechoosingcrow



Category: Guns N' Roses
Genre: Airports, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dates, Fluff and Crack, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Romantic Friendship, Sexual Humor, Sharing a Bed, Teasing, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:47:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25583095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luluthechoosingcrow/pseuds/Luluthechoosingcrow
Summary: Duff dressed like a stripper from Arkansas that had discovered the Sex Pistols last week, drank more vodka in a month than most people did in a year, baked amazing blackberry strudels, sang Prince in the shower, and made out with his friends when he was lonely. Izzy was pretty sure that he was in love with him. Something certainly comes out of it when they end up spending a rather romantic week (totally not a honeymoon) in New Orleans because somebody (the very Duff of his longings) always loses their passport.
Relationships: Duff McKagan/Izzy Stradlin
Comments: 11
Kudos: 22





	A Lover With A Red Hot Thong

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes (aka disclaimers):  
> 1 - Don't own the people or places  
> 2 - It's a combination of real and made up (to my knowledge) places for this story. Don't use this as a fucking tour guide, I've never been to New Orleans and I don't have memories of anywhere east of Lake Tahoe  
> 3 - The timeline of this is also completely made up. I like to bend reality to my will because I am a lazy writer  
> 4 - I tried my hand at writing a character with anxiety. I'm trying my best with the info online and my own experiences, but please let me know if something is wildly inaccurate and detracts from the story  
> 5 - I mean no disrespect to the band. I try my best to be a humorous writer, and I think that I have a pretty healthy view of them, seeing both the good and poking fun at the bad. Some of this might come off as mean, but I’m not really trying to be. I just want people to laugh

**Monday, September 15, 6:46 AM, New Orleans Louis Armstrong National Airport**

"Duff, what exactly do you mean you don't have your passport?" Axl spit, breathing hard in an effort to diffuse combustion. He was not exactly the happiest camper this early in the morning, especially when some people's forgetfulness interrupted the sleep he had planned on getting as soon as they boarded the plane.

The man being questioned gazed at Axl nervously through wide, panicked eyes. 

"I don't know, man! Er- I mean, yeah I don't have it... I'm pretty sure the last time I saw it was at the hotel when we checked in. I'm sorry! We just got up so early and it was still dark and I kind of have a hangover from last night so I just shoved my stuff in my bag and went downstairs so we wouldn't be late, but now we're going to be late shit I'm sorry I don't-" 

"Hey, hey. Duff, it's okay, just breathe," Izzy soothed, speaking his first words of the day besides a 'fuck off' to Steven, who'd been tasked with waking him up. He settled a coffee-cup-warm, pale hand on Duff's shoulder and turned to speak to Axl.

"It's fine, Bill, we'll figure it out. None of us function well in the morning, do you have your snakeskin belt, hmm?" He asked, knowing that the beloved item was still hanging from a lamp in the hotel room they had checked out of at 4 AM.

Axl's mouth shut with a clack as he glared at Izzy and his damned know it all face. He huffed out a breath and made a big show of rolling his eyes and changing his expression to one of fond exasperation.

"Fine, then, you can figure it out. Don't expect any help from us, though!" 

Izzy snorted at his friend's drama and his statement; Steven was currently trying to convince an off duty captain to let him fly his plane, Axl was Axl, and Slash was still dead to the world behind his hair -- very helpful.

"Okay, well, we'll meet you there as soon as we can. Enjoy your flight, don't become members of the mile high club without us," Izzy replied, pulling Duff up and swinging his backpack over his shoulder.

They walked away, arms brushing with every step, to the sound of Axl screaming at them to bring back his belt, and the disgruntled looks of other early morning airport commuters whom they ignored. Izzy followed the overhead signs back to a check in desk with Duff in tow, hoping that everything would work out and that they could be in Amsterdam with the rest of the guys by nightfall.

No such luck, of course.

"I'm sorry," the lady said with a completely uncaring smile, "but the next flight to Amsterdam, commercial or private, isn't until next tuesday. I can book two tickets for you, Mr. Stradlin, but there's nothing more I can do." 

Izzy sighed, but nodded. He sorted through bills in his wallet, mocking the lady in his head all the while.  _ 'I'm sorry, but your daughter is going to die from a wrench to the eye socket. I can give you a bandaid, but there's nothing more I can do.' _

Duff, though, having woken up on the walk over, was looking closer to an anxiety attack than the mild annoyance Izzy was feeling. 

He quickly excused them and grabbed Duff's wrist, pulling him a few feet away for the false illusion of privacy to calm him down.

"Shh, shh, take a deep breath," Izzy whispered, hands gripping Duff's shoulders to force them to look straight in each other's eyes. "Everything will be alright. We'll find your passport, hang out in the city for a while, then go meet up with the guys. Easy, no problems. Relax babe, just try to relax and breathe."

Duff tried to steady his breathing as he clung to Izzy, pulling the man into a hug. He wasn't sure what he would do if Iz wasn't here -- his friend was usually the only one who could stop his incoming anxiety like that.

They stood there for several minutes; Duff regaining a normal breathing pattern, and Izzy slowly rubbing his back. As they pulled away from each other, Duff spotted a hippo in Mardi Gras attire glaring at them in disgust. He smirked rather weakly, still a bit shaken and queasy from his panic but back on the track to his usual self.

"Hey, Iz, it looks like we have an audience, and he's not very pleased."

Izzy grinned back at him, relieved that the Duff he knew was still kicking. Besides, this was their favorite game. 

Every once in a while, the boys were subjected to odd stares and the occasional slur. Usually, it was just for dressing like Dolly Parton while shoplifting, but occasionally, it was because they got pretty close. Sometimes they were drunk, sometimes they were just talking to each other or hugging, sometimes because they were blatantly trying to piss off as many people as possible (sometimes the "people" included Axl).

Izzy moved his hands from Duff's shoulder blades, one wrapping tight around his waist and the other getting a firm grip on his delectable ass. 

Duff snorted and cupped Izzy's face in his large hands, angling him upwards slightly so that they could lean their foreheads together. He bit his lip to stop from giggling, and Izzy brushed his own mouth against him for a split second, getting a quick hint of teeth and coffee-breathe.

Out of the corner of his eye, Izzy saw the man visibly shudder, his beady eyes grimacing. 

A fake blond, middle aged woman Izzy assumed was his wife laid one hand on his polo shirt, as if in an effort to calm him down. It had the opposite effect. The man grunted and skewered his mouth to the side, squinting even more as if a giant rainbow spotlight was being blasted into his eyes.

Izzy smirked, though it was barely noticeable against Duff's mouth. 

Duff murmured something about 'making a scene', but Izzy knew he was referring to their audience and not themselves. Neither of them cared who saw this, though if it was printed in any magazines Axl might try to suplex them out of a window. "Try" being the key word -- the little red terror was too chicken to actually try that with Izzy, and too short to get enough leverage on Duff. 

Somewhere behind him, Izzy heard the woman whine, "Oh, Charles!" like she was getting the worst rimjob of her life. 

"It's disgusting, Carol! I won't stand for it!" 

"Time to get going?" Duff whispered, pulling back an inch.

Izzy gave him one last searing kiss and an extra probing squeeze to the ass then nodded, breaking away. They quickly picked up their suitcases and high tailed it out of the building, leaving dust, stares, and a purple and green, mouth breathing, homophobic fatman in their wake. 

Duff laughed as they came to a stop in the middle of a group of Japanese tourists. They all turned to look at him as he barked, panted, barked, and then wheezed with his hands on his knees.

Izzy was looking at Duff too, a rare - though not as much as some people would think - smile on his lips. He patted his friend on the back and pulled out a cigarette, then offered one to Duff. It would make the wheezing worse, but a smoker cares none about that. 

They lit up from Izzy's lighter as the tour grouped streamed past them, completely nonplussed at the disgruntled - or awed, recognizing - stares they received. Once they had the stretch of sidewalk to themselves, Duff stacked their suitcases one atop the other and sat down while Izzy hailed a cab. His long arms soon garnered them a ride and they hopped into the sedan after tossing their bags into the trunk. 

It was blue, with a peeling leather interior and a hand stenciled logo on either window; the usual black and white checkers ran a wobbly circle around the outside of the car. The driver glared at them from underneath bushy brows as they smoked their cigarettes, and Izzy smiled at him politely, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror, until he finished and put out his cig on the door's plastic. 

Duff's mind was in some far off place and he didn't notice any interactions taking place. Izzy wondered if he was thinking about how to find his passport, or what to do in the city, or about girls -- or, the bleach blonde head rolling onto his shoulder could have been asleep. The snores more or less confirmed it. 

"Where to?" The driver asked after a minute. 

“Marriott on Jackson,” Izzy answered, turning his torso minutely to get more comfortable.

Etta James’ smoky vocals floated out of the speakers, half of the tone quality getting lost in the maze of beads hanging down from the cab ceiling in a curtain between driver and passengers. Izzy sighed and shifted; the leather creaked; Duff snorted and drool ran down his arm. He smiled down at the man asleep on him and brushed some hair back from his sticky mouth, fingers slowly tracing Duff’s jawline. 

Michael Andrew Mckagan was a unique specimen, that was for sure. He was laid back and welcoming, yet had enough energy to rival Popcorn, at times. He was loving and affectionate to his friends, and scathingly rude to those that hurt them. Duff dressed like a stripper from Arkansas that had discovered the Sex Pistols last week, drank more vodka in a month than most people did in a year, baked amazing blackberry strudels, sang Prince in the shower, and made out with his friends when he was lonely. Izzy was pretty sure that he was in love with him.

The engine of the cab coughed, and suddenly the vehicle was rolling to a stop outside the hotel they had left only an hour or so ago. Izzy gently shook Duff awake and went to pay the man while Duff got their bags back out of the trunk. 

“That will be forty dollars,” the man said, staring Izzy down from beneath his fuzzy caterpillar. Interestingly enough, that was the only facial hair he had; perhaps he’d shaved off his mustache and glued it, hair by hair, onto his brow bone. 

“Really? It was half that to get to the airport two hours ago. What’s your game, man? You think you can scam us?”

Izzy didn’t like being scammed. It was damn near impossible to get one up on him - let alone very rare someone even dared to try - so this guy was about to get it if he thought he could. 

“You ruined my interior. Smells like smoke. I need to clean it now. I know you have the money,” the man glared, narrowing his eyes. The caterpillar hunched down too, like it was trying to curl up on itself to avoid getting eaten by a hawk-nosed Stradlin. 

“Is that so?” Izzy snorted, fishing out another cigarette just for the hell of watching the man get angrier. 

“Here, forty dollars. C’mon Iz, let’s go.”

Duff handed the man a fold of two twenties with a sigh, his other hand subtly resting on Izzy’s lower back for a moment before removing itself again. He wanted to fight it - there was no way that guy should be getting away with charging them double price, fuck that! - but Duff was tired and the money was already handed over. Izzy knew that physical signal from Dff, too, the hand on the back: it meant “leave it”. 

With a final huff and a not so subtle bird, Izzy grabbed his carpet bag from where Duff had lain it on the asphalt and followed his tall friend through the hotel’s front entrance, cigarette dangling from his mouth all the while. 

They made their way over to the front desk, explained the situation, and then they were back inside the mirrored elevator armed with the suite’s key card, going up like they had never left in the first place. 

“Hmm, wonder what it would be like to make love in this elevator?” Duff mused, staring upwards at his reflection in the ceiling. 

Izzy followed the bold line of his profile, from Adam's apple to nose to messy hair, before he finally glanced at the ceiling, too. 

“Interesting, certainly. I’ve done it in front of a mirror, but not in a whole box of them.”

“Yeah. Hey, we should come back here and incorporate this into our next video!” Duff exclaimed, grinning at him. 

Izzy snorted. “What, you wanna come back here a  _ third _ time? This place got like a magical draw or some shit?”

They both cracked up. 


End file.
